


Molarity

by virdant



Series: Diffusion, and other Phenomenon [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Extended Metaphors, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Math and Science Metaphors, Unreliable Narrator, Water, Will Graham Has Encephalitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 11:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16325270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: Hannibal wants nothing more than to permeate through Will's mind. Will sees Hannibal's design, its permutations, its successes and failures.---Will’s mind is like water.Within the bone arena of his skull, it sits precariously still. One careful touch sends ripples spiraling out along its surface. One rough jostle will send it splattering on the floor. He keeps his mind carefully protected, never close enough for another to touch its surface, to slip beneath its depths and make their home in the shadows deep underneath.Where does Hannibal stand, within the forts of his mind, now that the encephalitis has come and gone? Where would he be without the encephalitis?Where would they be if it had been allowed to run its course?Will closes his eyes and seeks—---A spiritual successor toDiffusion. A relationship study of Will and Hannibal's relationship utilizing the concept of molarity as an exploration of Hannibal's influence on Will.





	Molarity

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Fhimechan](https://fhimechan.tumblr.com/) for very kindly volunteering to alpha-read Molarity for me; your feedback was super helpful! Also thanks to Pann, who followed up to ensure clarity, despite, as always, not... going... here; I'm so glad you hold my hand despite the fact that we've never shared a fandom.
> 
> Thank you to everybody who's read, kudo'd, commented, shared, or otherwise loved _Diffusion_. In the very early stages of planning Diffusion, it was meant to be one in a series of character and relationship studies, utilizing scientific phenomenon (related to water) as a metaphor to explore Hannibal, Will, and their relationship together. I had mostly given up on following through with this project, but while the feedback quantity is not great, the quality has been amazing. Every single response gave me a little more love for this project, and Molarity is the result.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Molarity: the concentration of a solution, measured in moles of solute per liter solution.

“Do you see, now?” 

Will’s mind is like water.

Within the bone arena of his skull, it sits precariously still. One careful touch sends ripples spiraling out along its surface. One rough jostle will send it splattering on the floor. He keeps his mind carefully protected, never close enough for another to touch its surface, to slip beneath its depths and make their home in the shadows deep underneath.

Will sits across from Hannibal in his office, the lights golden and warm, away from the cold winter, a fire in the hearth banked. His hair has been cut, his shirt and slacks pressed, and he matches Hannibal’s posture.

Prison has tempered him.

Will says, “I see… potential.”

Where does Hannibal stand, within the forts of his mind, now that the encephalitis has come and gone? Where would he be without the encephalitis?

Where would they be if it had been allowed to run its course?

Will closes his eyes and seeks—

 

* * *

 

_In medium sauce pan, heat water until boiling—_

Will sits in his kitchen, silent. His eyes are glazed. He showed up less than an hour ago, knocking on the front door. His car engine was left running, the lights on. They cast half of him in bright light. The other half remained in stark shadow.

His shoes were unlaced.

Now, Hannibal checks Wil’s temperature with a hand. He’s burning, his brain boiling steadily away.

He steps back. Will has immense capability for understanding. But, left unattended, even the largest pot of water can boil away.

(It boils and boils and boils—)

 

* * *

 

The winters of Wolf Trap are cold—the days long and dreary—and will Graham stares out into the empty expanse of the snowy fields surrounding his home, empty except for the dogs. They frolic with the joyous abandon of creatures who have nothing to fear, nothing to worry about; their paws kick up the soft powder, their tails wag furiously, as if to churn the air around them.

What the dogs do not know is that the Chesapeake Ripper is murdering again, leaving corpses like a house cat bringing home rodents and birds to leave on Jack’s doorstop, smug satisfaction and careless brutality dripping from its expression. The dogs do not know that it has been three years since the Chesapeake Ripper’s last spree, and that it could be three more years until his next. The dogs do not know that Jack wants him to go deeper.

There is nowhere deeper to go. In the cold of winter, his mind is clear, like an unsullied lake, and he can see that there is nothing inside but himself.

 

* * *

 

_In hot water, add meat and simmer—_

Hannibal does not move.

Will stands in his kitchen. His hands shake. He is holding a gun.

“You won’t shoot me,” Hannibal says.

“Won’t I?”

Will sees with utmost clarity. This is Hannibal’s kitchen. That is the stove top, where he cooks his meals. That is the sink, where he washes away evidence of his humanity. That is the refrigerator, looming like a monolith, and inside—

Will knows what is inside.

Hannibal does not move. Will does not lower the gun. They stand at an impasse.

“You see me,” Hannibal says. Before him, the pot on the stove boils over. Its lid rattles: once, twice, and white froth creeps its way through the crack. It drips onto the stove, drop by drop.

Will does see.

His brain is boiling within the bone of his skull. Drop by drop, the Chesapeake Ripper has made its insidious way in.

“I see you,” Will says. “You consume me.”

Like meat, simmered over a low fire until soup is made from water. Like blood, spreading itself drop by drop until the surface is opaque.

“I see you,” Will says, again. He does not lower the gun. He meets Hannibal’s gaze. His eyes are distant with fever. “I see what you’ve done.”

Hannibal says, “It is 8:37 in the evening. Your name is Will Graham—”

“You’ve been very rude,” he interrupts, before he consumes.

 

* * *

 

He sees.

It’s like looking into a mirror—no, not a mirror, but the surface of ice, clouded over but still clear enough to reflect—

Still clear enough to see.

He sees Hannibal all too clearly. There is no fever to cloud his thought, no thick steam rising to obscure his sight. No, without the encephalitis, he sees Hannibal clearly—too clearly. He’s made his way into Will’s mind and sunk himself deep, and every time Will looks he sees: sees brutality and cruelty, sees the wanton waste of potential and life.

Hannibal stares back. Everywhere Will turns, he sees Hannibal Lecter watching him with that steady gaze, he sees the Chesapeake Ripper watching him, assessing him, determining his worth as if that’s his right, to be judge and jury and executioner to the masses.

He is everywhere, now.

He sees Hannibal Lecter in the road kill left lying on the side of the road, in the petty grudges his students have for each other, in the grit between his teeth during each meal. He sees the Chesapeake Ripper, following him.

“Will,” Hannibal says.

“It’s you,” Will replies; he sees clearly, now, without fever clouding his mind, with nothing to distract him anymore. It is just him and Hannibal; it is just him and the Chesapeake Ripper. He stares into the fathomless depths of his mind, and in his reflection he sees not just himself by the Ripper, but Hannibal—

“Do you see?”

He does, but seeing has never been the problem, nor the solution. Seeing has always been only the first step.

He says, “You’ve killed all those people,” and raises his gun. He says, “You’re the Ripper,” and summons the police. He says, “What you’ve done is unforgivable.”

He sees, but his mind is cold and still, and he does not love.

 

* * *

 

He will open his eyes, in the future, the sun high and warm, illuminating the white line of the scar where Hannibal once sought to access his mind as if he hadn’t pervaded it already. As if the water of Will’s mind has not already been saturated with Hannibal’s thoughts, Hannibal’s dreams, Hannibal’s love. As if he is faced with two separate solutions instead of only one.

He will ask, “What would you have done differently?”

With a dozen pasts behind them and a dozen futures lying before them, Hannibal will say, without hesitation, “Nothing.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos always appreciated!
> 
> \---
> 
> enjoyed this? [reblog on tumblr](https://virdant.tumblr.com/post/179189742261/fic-hannibal-tv-molarity)  
> want to talk writing? [follow me on tumblr](https://virdant.tumblr.com/) | [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/virdant)


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